Dad Said Kiss Him: My Heart Stopped! Why Was It Impossible To Do?<\/p>\n\n
In my family, we tended to argue by age group. There were eight of us and we all stirred up animosity along the lines of\u2026 an age up and an age down pairing. My older brother, number three, had more issues with number two and four. While number six had problems with number seven and five. See how it goes? For me, number seven, my biggest upset came from little number eight. For us, things were more problematic because he didn\u2019t fit the rules. With him, there wasn\u2019t a younger counter person to annoy him. There was only me.<\/p>\n
We argued about everything. It didn\u2019t matter the subject because somehow, we would find an argument in it. Normal things like, how to color, how-to pick-up trash, how to stand up or who could think faster all became fodder for our spats. \u00a0Our arguments never failed to escalate. The truth is, we might have blissfully pounded one another to the ground, had we managed to do it without upsetting my father. But oh, we were the noisy sort. When we tumbled around upstairs or got too loud, my father shouted, \u201cDon\u2019t make me come up there.\u201d It really meant, don\u2019t make me call you down here.<\/p>\n
After a series of angry pushes, things escalated. Someone always got hurt. Most of the time, it was a bruised ego. Our little battles went something like this:<\/p>\n
\u201cStop it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo. You stop it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m going to knock you out.\u201d That was usually me saying that to number eight.<\/p>\n
He might push me. Then I would try to knock him out. The loud crying or the slew of angry words often\u2014no, always resulted into a trip downstairs. Taking those steps into the bowels of family life was punishment enough. Too often, it was only the beginning. My father would ask us to explain ourselves.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe kept bothering me,\u201d I might start off.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, she hit me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI hit you because you hit me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cEnough,\u201d my father would say.<\/p>\n
\u201cBut he\/she started it,\u201d one of us would add.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t care. You should learn to get along.\u201d<\/p>\n
What happened after he spoke those words was crucial. My father had given us an opportunity to apologize or to say something as humble as, \u201cYes, Daddy.\u201d If and when, we could do that one thing, he released us on our own recognizance. We might have picked up where we left off, walking away a little happier, ready to fill our day with intense but ultimately forgettable moments.<\/p>\n
Too bad for us, it rarely happened. Blame, blame, blame. We couldn\u2019t help ourselves. It wasn\u2019t our fault. \u201cShe\/he won\u2019t or she\/he keeps or tell him\/her to\u2026\u201d One of us would shout. Bad move. Any of these openings headed in the wrong direction. Somehow, this scenario never changed and we never saw it coming. My father, sitting in front of us, calm with a smile and either kindness or evil genius in his heart would say, \u201cKiss him.\u201d<\/p>\n
Big deal, right? Wrong! Both my brother and I would begin to cry. Not a loud, shoulder shaking, snot oozing, air gasping cry. Nope, just a tears filling the eyes, heat rushing up the face kind of cry. We knew the deal and we hated it. When the mandate came, it meant I had to kiss my brother on his cheek, and he had to kiss me on mine. It didn\u2019t matter who did it first, we both had to do it. My loving evil father would let us stand there all day, if that\u2019s what we chose to do. He would even give us breaks. We got lunch breaks, dinner breaks and even toilet breaks. When we got our private toilet time, my dad would say, \u201cDon\u2019t dillydally in there.\u201d We didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n
During our meals, we stared at each other, refusing to turn away, although it would have been more logical. On some days, the meal break made everything worse. My anger would stir up inside me until it seemed to spread out to the stars. No one needed to egg me on. My fumes kept everyone away from me. More than that, no one wanted to be next, so everyone left us alone. It was a personal, silent, self-igniting, E=MC2<\/sup> situation. \u00a0After our meal, my father took up his spot on the couch and we went right back to standing in front of him.<\/p>\n Why couldn\u2019t I just kiss his cheek? What made it impossible? Sometimes, my anger went so deep I would cry into my food. Number eight did too. That mandate\u2026 \u201cKiss him,\u201d stirred up more anger and pain than whatever we had been fighting about. When I share this story with friends they might ask, \u201cDid your father just sit there the whole time?\u201d Yes and no. He did things. Sometimes, he fell asleep. It didn\u2019t matter. There were two solid facts. No, maybe I should call them rules. My father had to see us do this make up kissing. If he didn\u2019t see it, we didn\u2019t do it. There was no way, we\u2019d risk having to do a \u201cprove it kiss.\u201d We made sure he saw us.\u00a0 That\u2019s the first rule.<\/p>\n The second rule, although not related to the first was a general house rule. It was simple. When my father said to do something, you did it. That\u2019s it. Period. My father could have gone to work and back, and we would have stood there no matter what.\u00a0 My mother was no ally. She treated us like the poisonous fruit from that devil tree in the garden of Eden. Everyone left us alone. There were times, when my anger hadn\u2019t really gotten the best of me, and I could kiss my brother right away. There were times when he could kiss me right away. But there was never a time when we could both do it right away. \u00a0That meant we always stood in front of my Dad for a period of time. But at last, we would finally, sometimes right before bedtime, do the dirty deed.<\/p>\n I can\u2019t say my father spewed out words of wisdom when he\u2019d say, \u201cKiss him.\u201d They were for me tear provoking. Hours of standing next to my brother without any desire to kiss and make up. <\/em>The kiss him or her<\/em> solution worked every time. It worked on my older brothers and sisters too. I witnessed them standing in their own sea of torture, right next to their tormentor. My oldest brother at age nineteen, would have as difficult a time with the kiss him mandate as any of us.<\/p>\n So, it wasn\u2019t necessary to send us kids to our rooms, separate us or dole out punishments. My dad just let us deal with our own stubborn nature. How did my father acquire this little golden treasure I wonder? Did his parents do this to him? I\u2019ll never know. What I do know is\u2026 no matter how much I loved my little brother, I didn\u2019t want to kiss him, ever. Yuck. Even as a preteen, I didn\u2019t like the idea. As an older kid it was even worse.<\/p>\n Maybe that\u2019s the way to end battles. Make the leaders kiss and make up. Let the world watch them trapped in a tiny room. We could shove them in there and say, \u201cKiss him.\u201d<\/p> <\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n